


Counting By Sevens

by givemeunicorns



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: BAMF Q, Backstory, M/M, Mission Fic, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, aggressive flirting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-07 22:17:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1915926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/givemeunicorns/pseuds/givemeunicorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was no middle ground at MI6, only those who were going forward and those for whom there was no going back. Everyone knew what class James Bond belonged in. Everyone thought they knew what class the young Quartermaster fell to. That's why he'd locked his files to all but the highest clearance. There was an advantage to the illusion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: I don't own these characters and I make no money from them.

He was seven years old, all scrapped knees and too big glasses, sitting on a park bench, ice cream melting down one hand. He knew he should care, but watching the patterns the mint green made on the pavement was much more interesting. Ice cream didn't taste as good when it was an apology.

Dad sat down beside him, looked for a moment like he might had his son a napkin, then thought better of it.

“I know that was rough, love,” Dad said gently, “we'll find a different therapist. Would that make it easier?”

“What wrong with me?” Quinn asked, far too aware for a child of seven. Quinn was a lot of things he shouldn't be at seven.

She'd talked to him like he was stupid. Quinn hated more than anything when people treated him like he was stupid. He was far smarter than most kids his age, and he knew it. He couldn't help it that he cried a lot, or that sometimes he got so angry he'd break things. He couldn't help that, sometimes, the time between the two extremes was no more than the blink of an eye. He couldn't help it that he didn't know how to talk to the other children, that their imagination games didn't make any sense to him. He didn't understand why they expected him to lie about what he thought and what he felt, not when adults were always telling him not to lie.

“Oh, Quinny,” Dad sighed, slid off the bench and onto the sidewalk, kneeling in front of his boy. Quinn looked up at his father forlornly through his thick glasses and fringe of dark hair.

“There is nothing wrong with you. You're different, yes, and see the world in a different way than most people. But different isn't the same as wrong or bad. Do you understand?”

The child nodded, and his father squeezed one of his small, sticky hands tenderly.

“What do you say we to the park, hmm? I bet you can't swing higher than I can.”

The boy's face broke into a gap-toothed grin.

~~~~~

The the scrape of a key in the lock caused Q to lift his head. The sound of heels being kicked off his his entry let him take his hand off his gun. Eve hadn't bothered to knock in six months, not since he'd given her a key. She padded into his kitchen in her stockinged feet and plopped a carton of ice cream down next to him. He looked up from the computer screen.

“Mint chocolate,” he observed, “Rough day at the office?”

“You have no idea,” she sighed, reaching into the silverware drawer and producing a pair of spoons, before hopping onto the bar stool across the island from him.

In the handful of years Q had known Ms. Eve Moneypenny he'd learned that, under that pretty, quippy exterior was a frame of steel and nerves to match. Her bad days were the normal person's worst nightmares.

“The council's at his throat again, which means he's at mine and Tanner's,” she said, taking out a big scoop, “I keep thinking to myself, if he doesn't trust my judgement, I'm never going to get back in the field. I mean, yes, she was the one that pulled me, to make an example of me, but she always acted like, if I could prove my competence, I'd get to go back to it. She was even throwing me bones there for a while, easy me back in. But Mall...M doesn't seem to have that kind of faith in me. I'm just his _desk girl.”_

She took another scoop, lapping thoughtfully at the spoon for a while. 

_“_ It's times like this I really miss her most, you know? She wasn't the easiest person to deal with, that's true but she knew how to play the game, how to keep it all straight. A bloody battle ax, that women. If only we could all be so grand.”

Her smile was fond, and a little bit sad. Q could understand. They had as much reason as any, maybe more, to respect the old M. She'd given seen something in them that no one else had bothered to see. She'd taken the chance on the two of them that no one else had been willing to take. She'd also had a deep understanding that, sometimes, people fucked up. That when that happened, the world didn't end, you had to learn from it and move on. The new M was a good man, in a non conventional sort of way, but he was a different breed.

Q snapped his computer shut and, grabbing the offered spoon, reached over for a scoop of his own.

“I suppose that means he denied your field request again then?” he asked, delicately.

Eve nodded.

“I'm forever doomed to the fate of desk jockey,” she sighed, “all for one bad shot I knew was bad and was ordered to take anyway.”

“Well, you did shoot a double o,” Q teased and she shot him a venomous look.

“No commentary from the gallery that you very much,” she quipped, brandishing her spoon like a lance.

Q laughed. Eve Moneypenny was the type of woman that made Q almost wish he was interested in women. She was tough as nails when she needed to be, but there was an easiness to her that one didn't see often in her field. She was likable, with an easily trusted smile, a skill that made her as dangerous an asset as her shooting skills. She was organized, methodical, and knew exactly how competent she was; there was no arrogance in her assuredness but she also wasn't willing it for the sake of male ego. Which she often found herself faced with. She was soft and pretty, with her natural curls and wide eyes. If Q had met her on the street, he'd never have believed this woman was one of the world's most best snipers and most dangerous assets. It hadn't taken him long to figure out just was as much a shark as any other agent. No, not a shark. A bear, he thought fondly. Appearing sweet and tame until she wasn't, and a force to be reckoned with once she made up her mind on something. Including befriending a snarky, salty young Q division tech who one day be the Quartermaster.

They worked their way through half the tub, before she spoke again.

“Bond's back,” she said nonchalantly, but she was shooting Q a look, “he stopped by my desk on his way back from seeing M.”

Q pursed his lips.

“We'll I suppose that means I'll have to request a new transmitter made tomorrow. I swear, how difficult is it to keep your hands on two pieces of tech? He's always complaining about how I've downsized him, and yet he can't bring back a single bloody piece of equipment whole.”

Eve just smiled, and quirked a brow at him. He heaved a long suffering sigh.

“Oh god, not this again.”

“Not what again? It's not my fault you didn't lock your office before you two started snogging.”

“It was one time Eve, and that was as far as it ever got,” Q protested, reaching for the ice cream again.

“Well, who's to say that next time it won't go a little further,” she grinned manically at him. She god a sick sort of enjoyment from watching him squirm, he was sure of it.

“There's not going to be a next time,” Q demanded, “it was a singular moment of weakness.”

It was mostly true. Bond had actively pursued him that way, not romantically, but sexually, from the moment he'd first walked into Q branch. Q, for his part, had enjoyed the flirting, even given Bond something to work with, but he'd made the line clear and professional. Until they'd lost Grews. The man had seemed to be in the clear then suddenly, he was gone. Sniper shot to the back of the head. Q could practically hear the bullet through the comm.

It wasn't the first time he'd lost a man he was handling, wasn't the first time he'd heard one die. He had found ways to cope. Usually, the involved a night at the bar, taking home some handsome chap for a good, hard romp, a man he'd never have to speak to again. Bond had walked into his office as he was packing up his things to leave, had asked him, rather to Q's surprise if he was alright. He had been shaking, counting off the numbers in his head, steadying himself. Numbers were inflexible and hard, numbers didn't lie or fade. They were, in many ways, the most solid things in the universe, a fixed point he could focus on until he was able to hold his own reins again. Having Bond, of all people, interrupt the mantra, had surprised him, and rattled him. He'd snapped something about not being as fragile as everyone thought him to be, throughly miffed when Bond had simply smiled. He realized in retrospect, Bond had probably done it on purpose, but at the time, he'd felt an overwhelming need to prove himself to the older man. The next thing he knew, he had his tongue in Bond's mouth. If Eve hadn't walked in, he likely would have shagged Bond right there in his office, with the door unlocked, just to make a point.

There was something about Bond that Q found distractingly attractive, maybe the same thing that made everyone find him that way. Something about his half smile and the sharp cut of his suits, eyes that cut into him like ice. But Q had to admit, most of all he liked the danger of the allure. He knew what Bond was, knew how many people he fucked, knew he could be brutal, knew he could be cold. Bond didn't try to hide or mask that. Still, he knew that getting into that kind of limbo with an agent that he played handler to so often could get sticky. People made emotional attachments, even when they didn't mean to. Emotions were complicated, especially for Q.

He put his foot down after that, told Bond he wasn't interested and the double o had, surprisingly, backed off. He still flirted, Q wondered if he was trying to get his Quartermaster to blush, but it was cheeky and otherwise harmless. He did the same thing to Moneypenny, and at least a dozen others. He'd tried it on Tanner once, and the man had been livid. Q and Eve had turned it into their own personal joke, how highly Bond thought of himself, and his sexual prowess.

While it was fun to flirt, and more fun to laugh with Eve about it after the fact, Q couldn't help but find Bond attractive and he played that close the the chest. It wasn't just his looks; Bond had designed himself to have an overarching aesthetic appeal. He had a flair and a style that was old world, nostalgic for some and exhilarating for others. He had cultivated everything the world said a man should be. But it was something else that drew Q to him, something darker, bordering on animal. It was the reality that lurked just under Bond's skin, beautiful in it's brutality. Bond told the lies he had to when he had to but he didn't believe them and he won't allow those he deemed smart enough to either. He offered respect only when it was earned, but once garnered, he allowed no one else to belittle it. He wasn't afraid of the things most men were afraid of, and Q was almost jealous of that. He wasn't afraid of dying, of loss, he wasn't afraid of what others said. His self assurance in all things bordered on narcissism, and while Q often found it maddening, there was something to be said for the allure of a man who knew what he wanted, but also took a degree of pride in pleasuring his partners. James Bond was the type of man who would take you to bed and leave you wrecked for days after, or fuck you slowly and luxuriously for hours, whichever was asked of him. And he'd enjoy every minute of it.

That made James Bond the most dangerous sort of man to have in Q's life. He missed that, missed the constant access to someone who could give him everything he needed, in that sense. It was difficult for most men to understand how strongly Q's sense of touch affected him, how being touched int the right ways could make him animal in the best way, but being touched in the wrong ways could snap his finely honed control, could leave him a sort of mess that no one but himself should have to deal with. James Bond was the type of man who would strive to do it right, not just the first time but every time.

Then there was the connection of their cause. Regardless of how Q had come into MI6, eight years and a whirlwind trip up the ladder had changed his perspective. He may not always agree with what he was asked to to, but he believed in the big picture. He was better at seeing how the components made the whole than most people. Connecting himself to someone with the same cause was a good thing for some people, but for Q it was dangerous. It made it more difficult to compartmentalize his feelings, his needs, a skill he'd taken years to master, that had saved his life and his sanity more than once. Q reminded himself, often and firmly, that amazing sex was not worth the possibly trouble it could bring down on him. He'd worked too hard to get himself together. He wasn't going to let a hard on for James Bond change that. He learned a long time ago that some parts of his life had to be separated into boxes; if you mixed them, things got messy. Attraction to a double o agent and working as Quartermaster were an explosive combination.

He glanced at Eve, who was staring out at the skyline with a spoon hanging out of her mouth, and some how managing to look Grace-Kelly-graceful at the time. He smiled. Sometimes, he allowed the sections of his life to overlap, for the best.

“What are you thinking about,” he asked, turning to watch the sunset too.

She sighed.

“How if we got a cat, we'd be practically married,” she snorted, glancing at him from the corner of her eye.

Q chuckled, reaching across the table for her hand.

“I'm afraid it would never work between us, darling.”

She pouted theatrically and they both burst into a fit of giggles.

They capped the pint of ice cream and uncorked a bottle of wine. Eve kept a stash of extra clothes in the spare room for the nights when they were drinking, because they inevitably had enough to make her sleeping over the responsible choice. Katherine Hepburn drawled in the background of blue computer screens and the comfort of each other's company. She dozed with her head on Q's shoulder, somewhere after midnight. He slid gently out from under her, tucking a throw over her form and dropping a kiss onto her forehead, knowing full well his movement had woken her, but allowing her to feign sleep anyway.

As Q turned off his own light, he felt a grin tugging at his own lips. He'd never imagined he'd have a best friend again, not in MI6, not where the corporate latter felt like it was wrung with razor blades. He was amiable with his peers, before he'd been Quartermaster, and continued to be civil. But there was an unspoken truth there, that many of them were waiting for him to die so they could take the job he'd never wanted in the first place. MI6 had given him a lot of things, but none so well cultivated as a tough skin and sense of realism. Yet Eve Moneypenny had waltz into his life one day and decided he needed a real friend, whether he liked it or not. Like always, she'd been right.

He'd initially spurred her advances with cool civility. He'd been there a few years already and done a good job of keeping to himself, which suited him just fine, thank you very much. She, in turn, had buckled down, brought in the big guns, in the form of winning smiles and cups of Earl Grey whenever she brought some particularly tricky file or request down from on high. Still, some part of him was nursing a wound he'd never really be over, still dealing with the ideas of cover, the idea that he was lying to his family to keep them safe. The all of his friends, his real friends, probably thought he was dead in the river some where. He'd liked this woman, with her quick jokes and her endless brown eyes, but hadn't liked her enough to let her in. He wasn't sure he'd like anyone that much in a long while. Smiles were deceptive.

Until another agent laid a hand on him.

Something that Q had picked up on very quickly was that each of the branches had it's own dangers, then there were some threats that were universal. Agents, especially double o's, were the latter. They did enough damage in the name of Queen and Country that, often as not, they're exploits tended to get overlooked. They were a bloody lot, after all and they moved through the branches of MI6 as smoothly and effortlessly as a cat through a jungle. Most of them were decent enough, even amiable, but there was always an edge to them, like a dog that was known to bite. But a few liked the havoc they reeked a little too much, didn't know what to do with themselves within the halls of MI6, and so they made it a point to torment those they perceived weaker than themselves and too scared to report it.

Q had been an easy target, at first glance. He had always had the build of a person not made to take up space, the conservative dress didn't help him much. He'd remained all but anonymous in the handful of years he'd worked for the British government, preferring to blend into the background. To the agent, who'd seen only his shaggy hair and wide glasses and too big clothes, he'd had prey written all over him, too meek or too scared of the chain of command to do anything about a bit of sport. He hadn't intended that Q would be well used to bullies.

The threats were barely veiled and most of them unspoken, the way he'd leer at Q across the room, or stand just a step to close. There had been a time where Q would have broken a man's nose, then wiped out his bank accounts. The first time he brushed a hand across the back, of Q's neck, the not-then Quartermaster, had entertained the idea of getting the man killed in the field if he ever got to play handler. But more than just his career was riding on him playing the good boy in this place. So he'd kept his mouth shut, even when R had mentioned something to him in passing. He brushed it off, and he'd plotted.

His tongue got sharper, once he knew there were other eyes watching, eyes with a lot more clout than a Q tech brought in under questionable circumstances. His tormentor hadn't liked that, but seemed to back off. Until he shoved him into a broom cupboard. There were no cameras there, no way for Q to prove the man had hurt him, especially if he didn't leave any bruises. That was something he knew field agents could do, beat people without leaving any marks.

Q had learned young how to defend himself against people who were larger, had learned even more when he'd come into MI6 but this man had been far beyond anything he'd ever dealt with, he realized after the first thirty seconds. Nose bloodied and arm twisted behind his back, he knew the only thing that kept this man from killing him was paperwork. But he made the man angry enough to mark him, angry enough to give substance to his claims. He wouldn't get fired, or anything of the sort, but his leash would be shortened and a small triumph was still a triumph. And there was some small part of Q that liked the thrill, remembering what it was like to feel a fight in him. He'd numbed himself for too long, had gone from controlling his emotional extremes to having no emotions at all. It felt good to be angry.

He'd slammed the back of his head against the agent's and missed, found himself pinned again for his efforts. Amazing how a world of spies and espionage could feel so much like secondary school.

He hadn't heard the door open, hadn't heard her heels on the floor until someone wasn't holding him anymore. Even silhouetted in the doorway, like some comic noir hero, he knew he by the set of her shoulders and the smell of her perfume. Eve MoneyPenny, the field agent who'd killed James Bond and been sentenced to jockey desks at head quarters. She spoke to him almost everyday in passing, tried to hold conversations, even brought him tea to butter him up for whatever request she'd been sent to deliver. She wanted to be his friend, she talked to him and seemed to understand his humor, and now she'd likely saved his life. She had the other agent against the walls, with nothing more than a letter opener. His ears were ringing and he couldn't make out the words she whispered to the agent. But the half smiling set of her lips bordered on savage and when the man left, face cold with rage.

She's turned on Q then, her face fading back to friendly and amiable. She told him to put his head between his knees and had waited patiently until the blood stopped. Part of hims knew he should be ashamed, bleeding all over his favorite jumper, in front of an ex field agent he hardly knew, in an innocuous broom cupboard in the back halls of Q division. Like the school boy they all throught he was, awkward and simple, here because his brain could processes lines of code like a rosetta stone, even if he couldn't hold a conversation with normal people. He knew he should be ashamed of the salt and blood on his face, of his moment of weakness, where he let himself unravel a little. But he wasn't. She kept a careful distance, didn't talk really, or try to give any of the stupid, meaning words that people usually tried to offer. She'd even had the decency to shut the door, incase anyone else walked past. Like she understood.

“You busted his lip,” she said as she left, and grinned at him.

She'd sworn not to speak of it, after, though she told him they'd have to report the indecent itself. It was only a matter of time before the brute found another victim. He'd cleaned up in the bathroom and gone to tell M himself. She'd been the one to bring him in, she could bloody well deal with the predator. Q might have done a little tampering with the equipment for his own peace of mind, though. Q had learned fast the best way to deal with sharks.

After that, Eve had gone on like nothing had happened, and Q had tried his best to be a little warmer to her. It was nice, he realized, being able to trust someone with the truth. He'd forgotten how that felt. While he'd never been the best at socializing, he wasn't half as bad at talking to people as he'd let those around him believe, and Eve was easy to get along with. Casual conversation in passing had turned into shared lunches which had in turn become drinks in their off hours. He started keeping a bottle of Sweet Marsala at the house, though he didn't drink, just incase. He started keeping sheets on the spare bedroom and a blanket on the couch. He kept a duffel of clothes in the back of his car, incase he ended up staying over. One day he'd noticed a box of Earl Grey in her cupboard, even though she preferred Darjeeling. Six months ago he'd dropped a key on her desk so she could just come over as she pleased. She'd given him one to her place a few months before that.

Falling asleep, Q wondered if maybe they should just get the cat....

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Quinn watched the words dance across his screen in the dark. He smiled.

He'd accessed the bank records with little more effort than getting dressed in the morning. He didn't want the money, he didn't really need it. He just wanted to see if he could get in. When he was small, dad had told him about their cat, lilly, and why she chased birds she couldn't get to, because they were outside and she was inside. He explained that she couldn't help herself, that chasing birds was a basic instinct for cats. That catching the birds didn't really matter, it was the thrill of chasing them, that sent her chirping and scurrying through the house like a whirlwind. That in that moment, all that mattered was the bird, not what happened after. Quinn thought he understood that now.

He frowned a little.

Thinking about Dad made the joy feel dampened. He'd been gone nearly a year. He'd been run off the road by a drunk driver, on his way home from work. Something so simply, so normal. The drive took all of twenty minutes. Twenty minutes on the same stretch of road he'd traveled for almost twenty years and some bastards bad choices, in the middle of the damn day, had lost him his dad.

He pushed back from the desk, dropped his head in his hands, and started counting.

“7...14...21...28,” he whispered to himself, pulling himself back before the anger swallowed him up. Anger led to fear and fear led to panic. He'd been doing better lately, even if Mom hadn't.

A sound from his computer brought him back.

_Well Done- V_

Quinn stared at the screen quizzically, then almost grinned. His pounding heart started to slow, his breathing began to ease, coming down from the edge he'd been teetering on. He wasn't the only one trolling these records. The mysterious V seemed to be a little bit of everywhere. Quinn had corresponded with them this way a handful of times. They were a person of Q's age, he was sure, here for the same reasons he was. They never took anything, but they enjoyed a challenge. Sometimes they would make bets or dare each other. V was smarter and more careful than the other young hacker Q knew, but they seemed very, very good.

_Same to you. I wasn't sure you'd show up.- J_

He'd started using his first initial as his signature lately. Q and B just didn't have the same ring to them.

_Do I ever fail to come to your call?-V_

Quinn smiled, that was almost like flirting. He really, really hoped V was a boy and that he was interested in other boys.

_Never-J_

_I want to meet you.-V_

Quinn starred at the screen for a moment.

_I understand if you don't want to though. No pressure. No, forget I asked.-V_

_I hope I didn't offend you.-V_

Quinn's heart danced against his ribs. Whoever V was wanted to meet him , but was also nervous about overstepping. Like the faceless camaraderie they had meant something, something V didn't want to risk. It was probably stupid to agree. V could have been an ax murderer, or worse, a cop. But there was something curling in Quinn's gut. Thrill.

_I want to meet you too.- J_

_Really?-V_

_Really-J_

Nothing.

_What is the nearest city to you?-V_

_London-J_

_Me too-V_

A smile pulled at Quinn's mouth, the broad, half forgotten kind. He grinned so brightly, it almost hurt.

They met a week later at a tea shop in Camden Town. Quinn gripped the strap of his bag a little tighter. The place was full of people who looked like him, to some degree, young, eclectic. His fitted jeans, his loose sweater, his silver earrings, his large glasses, seemed at home here. But there was a hard edge of doubt in his stomach. Mom hadn't asked where he was going and he hadn't put it in the note he'd left. She was passed out on the couch when he walked out this morning, but he hadn't smelt wine on her or seen a bottle. He didn't say anything about the booze to her, or to the therapist she made him go see. Quinn had his computers to escape to, his sister Charlie had her music, his sister Mora had school. Mom didn't have those things.

His eyes danced around the crowded room, and his heart did a little jig under his ribs. This was a bad idea. V could be a pervert or a killer for all he knew. They might find his body floating in the Thames. Or maybe it had been a cruel joke, like Andrew Flynn, who'd pretended to like him so Quinn would trust him; so Quinn wouldn't suspect he was walking into a trap until three boys jumped him and stripped him. Q had tagged Andrew's house the first time. After that he'd learned subtler attacks; like sneaking into the records and changing the boys' grades. It wouldn't keep them out of his grade or out of his way, but he knew they'd all been licked for coming home with F's, before the issues was sorted out, and that little bit of revenge was still sweet on Quinn's tongue.

Out of the corner of his eye, Q saw what he was looking for. A dark haired young man, maybe a year or two older than Quinn's fifteen, was sitting in one of the faded wing back chairs, a copy of Anna Karenina in his hands. It was in russian.

Quinn started for the boy, but stopped when the young man looked around, his breath catching. This wasn't what he's expected at all. He'd thought V would be a carbon copy of himself, and almost every other hackers he'd met so far, kids from school or who saw the same therapist. Unkept and a tad awkward. But something about the way he glanced about the room that exuded grace. He wasn't handsome, not in the traditional way, but there was a sort of regal quality about his face. His nose was bit too sharp, his mouth was bit too thin, his cheek bones a bit too prominent. But his eyes sucked Quinn in without a second thought, wide and dark and beautiful. His gaze met Quinn's and he offered a nervous smile. He lifted his book for Quinn to see. Quinn held up his arm, showing V the slim bracelt around his wrist, a silver dragon with jade eyes. Dad had brought it back from traveling a few years back, when Quinn had still been deeply enamored with the idea of dragons. His wrists were still slim enough that it fit, though just barely.

V was moving his bag and coat off the chair across from him, smiling shyly.

“J”, he asked, and Quinn could here the touch of an accent. Probably russian, given his reading material.

Quinn nodded, offering a hand.

“V?”

The boy shook it. His hands were deceptively graceful as the rest of him, all long fingers and prominent knuckles, but strong and sure.

“Victor, but I go by Satcha,” he said pleasantly, and Quinn knew he could have sank into that voice like a warm blanket.

“Middle name,” Quinn asked, trying to sound nonchalant but really just sounding nervous.

But the other boy smiled and suddenly his thin and wide mouth suited his face just fine, like his mouth was made for smiling. He nodded.

“Me too. My name's Joseph, but I by Quinn. ”

“Pleasure to meet you, Quinn,” the other boy...Satcha, said, and Quinn's name sounded like honey rolling off his tongue.

~*~*~

Sometimes Q wondered what Monday mornings were like in a normal office, what people meant when they talked about “that monday morning feeling”. He'd never worked in a “real” office. Here in Q branch, Monday mornings were as hellish as the rest of the week, probably because they all worked odd hours and there was no such thing as a weekend.

His fingers leapt across the keyboard but his eyes never left the screen in front of him. For all it's issues, Q was in his element here. Whatever circumstances had lead him to it, MI6 had made good on their promises. The hours were hell but the pay was exceptional. The responsibilities were hefty but his leash was very, very long. At the moment, he was flipping through the financial records of a rather sketchy foreign minister. Much better than prison, just as M had promised.

He heard the click of heels of the tile but didn't glance up. Four inch Loubouton's had a very distinctive sound and Eve wore them battle armor. She was a women of many talents; he'd seen her run in those shoes once. It had been a sight to behold, watching her defy the laws of physics.

She dropped a file on his desk with a grin and scowled, not looking up from his screen. She gave it a little nudge towards him.

“Busy,” he grumbled.

“From the boss,” She replied in a sing-song tone and Q's scowled deepened and he heaved a long suffering sigh.

“What does he need now? Can't open his email?”, Q complained childishly and Eve grinned. That woman would be M one day, he was sure of it, and he was thoroughly convinced the could solve as many world problems with her smile as she could with a gun.

“One of our informants has some information about a cyber terrorist cell operating out of Dublin. He wants you to take a look, see if it's anything we need to be concerned about, or if it's just a bunch of kids playing Galliga.”

Q flipped open the fine, scanned the first page quickly. Most of the reports on cyber crime came to his eyes, or one of his people, before it was sent to agents. Half of Q branch had come into it via some sort of cyber crime, they knew what they were looking at, they know who was a government threat, who to bring in, and who not to worry about.

“So I assume that means this isn't top shelf,” Q sighed, miffed to have been pulled away from his work for a trifle.

Eve shrugged.

“He seemed pretty firm on having it checked out immediately. There are some familiar names in there, and after Silva, I think he's playing it close to the chest when it comes to people who could potentially get into our system. Better safe than sorry and all that.”

Q nodded, flipping the file shut.

“Tell him I'll add it to the top of the list,” he said, turning back to his computer, “though you could have just called.”

Eve shrugged.

“Phones have been wonky all morning, even the secure lines, cutting in and out.”

Q frowned. No one had informed him of an issue with the phone system. It was pretty low on his list of responsibilities, but it seemed like anytime anything with a wire was feeling temperamental he was the first on to get an earful about it.

“How long has that been going on?”

“Since this morning. But security checked it out; phones are being fussy all over London after the winds last night.”

Q gave a relieved nod. Not his problem then.

~*~*~*~

Q was in his office, flipping through the files, when 007 arrived.

Pages of notes were scattered across the otherwise tidy desk. Q was sorting the file into piles; one for people he knew, one for people he knew _of,_ and one for people who were unfamiliar. So far the unfamiliar pile was pleasantly larger than the rest, eight years was a long time to play for a different team. He hoped the knew piled stayed small, allowing him to keep the illusion that his old compatriots had grown up since their reckless youth, started turning there talents towards marginally safer avenues. Q had traveled the road paved with good intentions, it was true about where that road went. He glanced up over his glasses at the agent. There was a familiar black box in his hand, but, from the grin on the older man's face, Q held no pretenses that the contents of the box would be intact.

“You are a menace to government property, do you know that?” he said dryly, going back to his papers.

“And good day to you as well, Quartermaster. The mission went smoothly. Brazil was beautiful, as always, thank you for asking” he said, without batting an eye. He dropped a him onto Q's desk, leaning over to glance at the files. Q crossed his elbows over the papers, he had no doubt 007 could read upside down. It wasn't so much to protect the information, Bond had little reason beyond curiosity to care about supposed hacktavist types until he was ordered to put them down, but it was a matter of principle. Q didn't like people in his space, especially handsome agents who enjoyed pushing buttons.

“Touchy,” Bond teased, putting the box down on the table.

“Not touchy, just reminding you to display a shred of common decency. It's rude to read over people's shoulder,” he said firmly.

“I'm not over your shoulder though am I,” Bond shot back with a cheeky grin, “thought you didn't care for me standing close behind you? Change your mind?”

Q pinned the agent with a narrow gaze.

“You are such a child,” he grumbled, returning to his files.

That earned him a laugh.

“Pot meet kettle,” Bond chuckled. Q chose to ignore.

Bond raised his hands in mock surrender and stood.

“Fine, fine. If you want to keep it to shop talk we'll keep it to shop talk,” Bond sighed, crossing the room to look at Q's bookshelf. Most of them were historical texts, though their was a fair smattering of engineering and physics texts. Next to nothing on computers or coding. Q had always believed computers evolved too quickly to make books on them worthwhile, and coding was a game he'd learned by watching and playing.

“I can't get my reports to save to the private drive you gave use, the one that goes straight to Mallory.”

Q glanced up at that.

“What?”

“I can't get it to save. It like the drive just consumes the report. It goes though, but it's not there. And all my files are out of place.”

Q's heart stuttered in his chest, a sudden cold flooding his fingers. The phones were down, files moving and disappearing from secure thumb drives.

A frantic knocking at his door roused him.

“Come in,” he barked, a tad too harshly. The intern who's head poked around the corner looked thoroughly terrified.

“Ummm, I'm sorry to bother you sir, but we have a bit of a situation out here.”

Q was out of his chair so fast he heard it hit the wall behind him but he didn't turn around. He pushed past his intern, Bond hot on his heels. A growing sense of fear crawled up his spine and he felt his blood had turned to ice water in his veins.

“We can't figure out what happened, Sir,” the young women pleaded, “One moment everything was fine and then suddenly, nothing but static. It's building wide.”

Of course it was, he'd planned it that way.

“Shit,” Q breathed, “Shit, shit, shit.”

He made a bee line for his own computer, still hooked up the flat screens on the wall. His fingers flew across the keys, working their way through a half forgotten code. The screen stopped flicker, faded to black. For a moment he could breath, this was a normal hake, this he could handle. This wasn't a ghost, just someone too smart for their own good.

Then the words flashed across the screen, red as blood on the endless cyber black.

_Lightbringer_

Q felt the cold claw of panic scraping at his guts, for the first time in years, squeezing his lungs, his throat. This wasn't happening. This wasn't real. It was a nightmare, a result of fate changed too quickly in someone too young. But the words started back and he knew they were real, despite the impossibility. Some one had finished the program. Someone had read all their secrets.

_7...14...21...28_

“Shut it down,” Q called, his voice stilling the panic, “Shut everything down.”

~*~*~

Mallory was pinching the bridge of his nose, like listening was making his head ache. It probably was. Since he'd taken on the title of M, he looked to Bond like he'd aged ten years. Q didn't seem to notice, or if he did, it didn't slow him down in his explanation.

“So you're saying someone hacked us?” Mallory sighed.

“Yes and no. There was a program introduced onto our system, though I have yet to find the source. The program, called light bringer, it's purpose is to subtly remove files and upload them to the web, very quickly and on a massive scale. After Silva, you can understand how a program like that on our computers could be disastrous.”

“So what you're telling me is all our files have been uploaded to the internet?” Mallory asked and their was a hard edge to his voice. It took Bond a moment to identify it as near panic. He quirked a brow. Mallory was not the panicking type.

“No,” Q bite back, a little sharply, which surprised Bond. Q had always been good at keeping his tongue in check around those who could end his career. But Q was also a typically cool and distant individual. He'd dealt with Silva's infiltration with a few quick movements and a handful of curse words. Now he was nearly shaking in his shoes, eyes blown behind his dark glasses, like he'd seen a ghost.

“This was a test,” he continued, “ a trial run, to see how much resistance the program would meet. That's why our phones and screens when down, an unexpected problem on their end, one that could have easily been explained away as a black out.”

“But it wasn't,” Mallory replied, standing, fixing Q with a hard gaze, “You knew it was more. How?”

“Bond told me that his private drive was acting oddly. Refusing to save files, documents moved about, as if someone was messing with it. Because they were.”

Mallory shook his head.

“How did you know it wasn't me? Or someone else? Bond isn't the only person with access to that drive.”

Q's hand hitting the desk sounded like a sonic boom in the quiet of the office.

“Because sir, I wrote that program,” he almost shouted, “Before I was recruited. I never finished it, it was a pet project, never bother to figure out if it would work. I turned it over to MI6 with all my previous work when I was recruited. The only way to get that file is from here, someone who could get into our archives and knew what they were looking for. There are only a handful of people in the world who knew I was creating that program and there are even fewer who'd be able to work off of what I started, considering how much computers have changed in the last ten years. I think someone from the outside knows who I am, they found someone with the clearance to get them that file and paid them off to do so. Then once they had their hands on my program, they turned it against us. And if it's who I think it is, they're not just gunning for us, they're looking to release a world full of sensitive information. Every office of government, the world over. No more secrets.”

Mallory dropped back into his chair.

“Who do something that stupid?”

Q's lip curled up in something close to a sneer and Bond quirked a brow. The Quartermaster was in rare form today.

“Believe it or not sir, it isn't so uncommon for people to be bothered by the idea of the government monopolizing information.”

“Careful Quartermaster,” Mallory said cooly and the younger man pulled in a ragged breath.

“I think there are any number of hacktavist groups who would be willing to do this sort of thing. It's been in vogue the last few years, but it's usually been small scale. Revealing teen rapist who need to be in jail, records of illegal deals the like. Things that could put the right people in jail but nothing even close to this. This could potentially release every shred of sensitive information to the public all at once. A complete purge of the system.”

Mallory locked his cool gaze on the quartermaster, an for a moment Bond almost feared for the boy. Not just for his job, but for his existence. Whether he'd admit it or not, the young man in fron tof him had a power in his mind to make or break empires. While under the strict watch of MI6 it was an asset, but some small piece had been spirited away, and his brilliant brain had suddenly become as much a liability as an asset.

“Then what, Quartermaster, do you suggest we do about this? If this was a test run, how do we stop the final act?”

Q pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I think I know who has the file,” He said shakily, “ they call themselves Light Bringer, like the program. Like Lucifer bringing the light of knowledge to man.”

“But Lucifer became the Devil,” Bond said, brows furrowing.

Q nodded.

“And who is god in the modern age if not government intelligence,” Q replied with a shrug.

“How do you know it's them that has the program?” Mallory inquired.

Q rose his hands in a helpless gesture.

“Because I was one of them. I helped start them.”

 


End file.
